


a better home awaiting

by junieyes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Mage Reader, The Squad, these children deserve happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junieyes/pseuds/junieyes
Summary: The two weeks it takes you to get to Ostagar includes a lot of crying, stumbling, more crying, animals you'd never thought you'd see, and even more crying. You haven't bathed in a week, your robe is riddled with holes and stained with blood, and you've had to pee behind a tree-you're going to be dead by the end of this Blight, possibly before the end of the night, but after spending the entirety of your life in Kinloch Hold?Those two weeks are the best two weeks you've ever experienced.





	a better home awaiting

**Author's Note:**

> i tried

It starts like this:

Dull, rhythmic marching behind layers upon layers of stone; fearful eyes fleetingly illuminated by yellow firelight, seeping from beneath the door; the stirring of murmurs in the dark, dust laden air.

Tonight, a Harrowing will take place.

Some girls plead, and beg, hushed whispers of “Who do you think it is?” and “I hope it’s not me. Please, not me.” Others pray, the Chant falling from their lips with a desperate sort of reverence, seeking safety for one more night.

You stopped praying years ago.

Instead, you sit quietly with bated breath, watching and waiting, bones steeped in weary resignation for the moment to pass. You have managed seventeen years any too many nights to count. You’ll manage one more. Whomever the poor mage is, you hold the bleakest sliver of confidence that it won’t be you.

The Templars do not disappoint. When the march stops, all noise follows instantly, dying down to hot, uneven breaths and the cautious shifting of scratchy blankets.

Quietly, the door swings open, a gentle gracefulness that belies the dread pervading the room.

Slowly, a large, looming figure steps into the doorway. From your cot, the Templar is made of sharp angles and hard edges; their armour glints underneath the glow from the candles outside, casting them in a bright, holy light.

Gooseflesh covers your bare skin, and you shift back as far as you dare. _Dangerous_ , your mind whispers.

Apprehensive tranquillity descends upon the room. It lasts only a few seconds.

When the Templar finally speaks, your heart stops still.

It’s you. The poor mage they’re Harrowing is you.

.

.

.

The walk itself is harrowing.

They grasp your arms tightly, pulling you down the winding hall. The marching rhythm has picked up again, evenly paced and unhurried. But it’s so much louder now, the heavy, metal gait of the Templar’s echoing loudly off the stone walls and into your head. It’s nearly hypnotic.

Gooseflesh rises on your skin the higher they take you up the tower. It’s cold, and your night dress isn’t as protective against the warmth as it should be. You’d only been half awake when they pulled you out, groggy with sleep despite the frightened air in the dormitory–but now, your heart’s beating too fast, so fast it might beat itself out of your chest and fly away. Wide awake and full of fear, it’s impossible not to trip over your feet.

The Templars don’t take this lightly.

If you survive this, there’ll be bruises all over your arms shaped not like rounder fingers but sharp claws.

At last, when you’re certain the tower can’t go on any higher, they stand you before a grand set of doors, the type that is far too fancy for any lowly mage like yourself to lay eyes upon. But here you are, and they don’t give you any time to admire its beauty because they shove you non-too gently inside.

You nearly fall to your knees; if you’d been wearing your robes it’s safe to say that blood would’ve been pouring from your nose already. And, who knows, you might’ve been dead within a second. Templars were plucky like that–a drop of blood and suddenly it was all shouts of “Maleficarum!” and “Demon!” and “Get them!”. Not to be cavalier, but the tangy sizzle of lyrium in the air and the sight of a bloody smear in torn robes is nothing new.

Not to say that all bloody smears had _died_ … but–

They aren’t exactly walking like they used to anymore.

And, already off to a not so great start, you don’t think you’ll be walking right either. But at least you’’ have survived, and that’s all that really matters at this point.

“Apprentice Amell,” says Knight-Commander Greagoir, grim and detached. “You’re not stupid. I take it you know why you’re here?”

You puff up only a little bit under that small sliver of praise, but otherwise, you nod. You don’t dare look away as he goes on to explain the history, and the why’s, the what’s and the how’s (except not really the how’s, they don’t want mages knowing how to create a half-assed Harrowing in their beds). Most of all, he tells you your purpose. He needn’t–it’s not as if you’ve spent the entirety of your seventeen years not knowing why you’ve been locked away.

As a mage, your purpose is to serve the people that are considered _people_ ; you are not to rule over them, or hurt them, or breathe in their direction.

(not that there is much serving being done, what with being stowed in a tower and all)

This tirade that has been carved into your bones since day one. And you don’t believe one second of it when he calls your magic a ‘gift’.

If it were a gift, truly, there wouldn’t be a ring of Templars standing around you; you would not be staring down slated faces gleaming dully under the luminescent blue hue of lyrium, and they would not all be standing at the ready in their ridiculous skirts. You would not be here at all.

These men are cold and solid, carved from stone. You’re not sure if they’re even breathing. And, for a second, a single precious moment, you think of the statues in the Chantry–Andraste’s empty, stone face looming above, light delicately flickering from the burning candles beneath her, and your stomach rolls.

And then First Enchanter Irving is speaking. “You will be sent into the Fade,” he says, gravely. “and you will face a demon armed only with your will.”

Yes, you can see why this is a cause for concern.

Is it too rash to want to die rather than continue? Surely, if you ask politely, they would grant it most painlessly and effortlessly. The neck is very delicate and easy to incapacitate. But the only other option aside continuing forth is Tranquillity–and, no. Never. This isn’t a debate. Death before lobotomization, but you’re too cowardly to ask for death. You cry when you get a papercut, for Maker’s sake.

Demon it is.

“You are ready, Apprentice. Step forward,” the Knight-Commander waves his gauntlet over to the bowl of lyrium. The nonchalance in the gesture sends prickles along your skin, hair standing straight. To him, you’re just fodder. He doesn’t care if he has to cut you down by the end of the night–it’d mean one less dangerous thing with the potential to let loose destruction and chaos. And isn’t that just better for all Thedas?

Mages were the blight upon the land when there wasn’t an actual blight. But you’ve known this all your life and see it not cynically, or bitterly, but resigned. To make any sort of living in the Circle, acceptance is a must.

So, you take that first step, a little bit shaky, a little bit queasy, but willingly.

First Enchanter Irving is speaking again, low tones that only you can hear, but the words don’t register. They sort of just fizzle, and all that cuts through to your distracted mind is the weariness with which he speaks. It’s something about wits, you think, but you try not to worry.

It goes smoothly because rather than prolonging the inevitable your body moves with a mind of its own. The bowl quivers under the force of your hand sinking deeply into the pool of thrumming lyrium. There isn’t a moment to regret it.

You’re knocked out before you can hear the enchanter abruptly cut himself off and mutter a worried, “Oh dear.”

 


End file.
